


Internal Combustion

by SaltCore



Series: Gasoline and Gunsmoke [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Danger Fetish Hanzo, Language, M/M, not so long suffering mccree, testosterone diesel and property damage, vroom vroom motherfuckers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 15:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13010451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore/pseuds/SaltCore
Summary: Hanzo gets a little more hassle than he bargained for as he makes his escape on a stolen motorcycle, but what's life without the wind in your hair and Talon eating your dust?





	Internal Combustion

**Author's Note:**

> Late, late, late request fill for an anon on tumblr. They were very sweet about the delay.

Hanzo drops out of the vent and into a wide, open room—perhaps a hangar. Off in the distance is the sound of gunfire and explosions. The rest of the team is taking to their assignment of causing a distraction with some gusto. Around him are crates collected into haphazard piles, but at the front of building, near the open doors, is a row of motorcycles.

How thoughtful of Talon.

Hanzo slinks over, careful of exposing himself. He can’t hear anyone else in here with him, but he doesn’t want to be caught on the cusp of escaping with the data. The motorcycles are hulking black things, nothing like that sleek electric motorcycle of Jesse’s.

They look something like museum pieces, with their rubber tires and gas tanks, but there was a resurgence of low-tech vehicles in military circles during the Crisis. You can’t hack timing chains and chemical combustion.

Hanzo checks the fuel level of the one closest, and it’s nearly full. He thumbs the starter, and there are four sharp, mechanical coughs and then it rumbles to life. A smile creeps onto Hanzo’s face, and he spends a moment luxuriating in the sound.

He glances to the others. He pulls an arrow from his quiver and jams it into the rear tire of the next motorcycle, then the next, and the next, and on down the line. It seems a shame, but he needs to hamper any possible pursuit where he can.

Hanzo throws one leg over the running motorcycle, leaning forward to grip the handlebars. He pulls it properly upright, kicking up the kickstand. Hanzo revs the throttle with the motorcycle out of gear. It roars under him, loud and full. Hanzo can _feel_ the sound as a physical force, vibrating through the frame and into him.

Oh, this will do nicely.

Hanzo shifts the motorcycle into gear and it lumbers forward. It’s not like the nimble acceleration of Jesse’s electric bike, but there’s a power to it, just waiting to be unleashed. Hanzo steers out of the building, through the open hangar doors, and onto the pavement and the cool night air. There’s no subtlety to this thing, no chance of sneaking out, but Hanzo’s not sure he cares. Let them try to catch him.

Hanzo can feel the pistons rumbling as he twists the throttle.  It shifts up a gear and the _revshiftlurch_ make his heart skip a beat. It’s like a living thing, straining to be free.

Hanzo tries his best to oblige.

The engine screams as the sound of each piston blurs together, and the wind whips around his face and roars in his ears. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this—his heart racing and adrenaline singing in his blood. He pushes the motorcycle harder, right up to the point he can feel the front wheel start to lift.

He eases off, but only barely. As much as he loves riding with Jesse—and relished the times Jesse traded off driving to him—there’s just something about having the bike to himself, about not having to worry about the passenger. Hanzo almost forgets he has somewhere he’s supposed to be.

The appearance of Talon agents behind him is a potent reminder, however. They’ve rounded up a few cars, and they’ve certainly spotted him.

Hanzo leans to his left, dropping one foot to skim the pavement, and tugs the motorcycle down a side street. If he can get back to the more populated portions of the city, even with the glorious noise, surely he can lose them. He sees one car fail to make the turn in his mirror, lateral thrust firing brightly, but it skims over the pavement past the street entrance. Three do not, but the last crashes into the first with a distant squeal of metal.

Hanzo makes more sudden turns, his knees almost touching the ground each time, hoping to lose them, but what the rubber tires add in maneuverability, they detract in stealth. He’s leaving black skids on the pavement.

Ahead of him more cars are begin to appear, but behind him Talon is gaining. Hanzo wonders if they’ll open fire into a city street with civilians around, but he doesn’t have to wonder long.

Surprise number one, they don’t begin shooting.

Surprise number two, what they do is worse.

One of the cars pulls up beside Hanzo, his advantage erased on the straight stretch of road. Hanzo grabs the brakes, locking up the wheels and skidding but still slowing, just as something flies out of the window of the car. Hanzo manages to put Talon’s car between himself and it, just as an almost deafening crack splits the air.

They’re throwing grenades, of all things, at him. There’s perhaps a certain logic to it, he won’t recover if the tires are punctured and successfully shooting a moving target from a moving position is nontrivial. A punctured tire will cause him to crash, and a crash _will_ kill him.

The tail lights flash on the car as the braking thrusters fire, and the car begins to drop back to match him. Hanzo can see inside, see the man in the passenger seat pull the pin on a grenade and toss it.

Hanzo doesn’t think, he just reacts. He catches the grenade, pauses, and then throws it back into the car and twists the throttle. Glass fragments pepper his back—hopefully _just_ glass fragments—as another crack sounds, slightly muffled this time.

One down, two to go.

The traffic is beginning to pick up, giving Hanzo a chance to make use of the agility of the motorcycle. He threads through every gap available, sometimes missing cars by scant centimeters as he approaches too quickly for the various autopilots to negotiate and make him a proper space.   

Talon doesn’t throw anymore grenades at him, probably not out of deference to the safety of the civilians but instead out of the knowledge that they are more likely to incapacitate other vehicles and create a roadblock for themselves instead of killing Hanzo. They, however, manage to keep pace. They don’t seem at all concerned about hitting other cars if that’s what it takes.

Hanzo can’t keep this up. He does a quick scan of his surroundings. There’s a ramp leading up into the bed of an open, flatbed truck, mercifully empty. The truck is blocking the entrance to a side street. Hanzo smiles.

He revs the engine, darting between two cars, and aims his front wheel at the bottom corner of the ramp. He hits it diagonally, twists the throttle as hard as he can, and sails up into the air. That second of weightlessness seems to simultaneously stretch on forever and be over far too soon. He rejoins the earth with a sharp lurch, almost losing control of the motorcycle, but he jams his foot into the pavement and keeps it upright.

He can’t risk a look over his shoulder to see for certain, but he knows the Talon agents following him must be seething.

_Good._

Hanzo darts into traffic on the other side, just this side of reckless. He weaves though the carsto gain ground wherever possible, trying to put as much distance as he can between himself and Talon. The further he gets, the harder it will be to pinpoint the noise from the motorcycle.

He could abandon it, but he doesn’t know when his next opportunity to ride something like this will be, and he’s loathe to let it go before he must. The night air in his face and the rumble of the engine is almost meditative.

He has to slow, the sound of the engine reducing from a coherent roar to four distinct pistons but that’s lovely in its own way, as he weaves through the night’s traffic. The bars in this district must be closing. Many of the cars must be under autopilot, their occupants occupying some high position on the scale of inebriation, as they are slowly parting around him like water around a stone.

He is beginning to think about radioing for a rendezvous when, behind him, Hanzo hears the scream of tires skidding on pavement. He glances over his shoulder and sees a matte black personnel carrier. Its wide set body takes up most of a lane, doing a lot to mitigate the height of the thing. It wobbles on its chassis but it doesn’t tip, and then it accelerates after him.

That’s not ideal.

Hanzo guns the engine again, this time the front wheel popping up, and begins weaving through the cars, almost pressing his chest into the gas tank in an effort to diminish the size of the target he presents.

These agents aren’t as shy about gun fire as the others. Bullets chew up the pavement behind him as he makes a wild dive onto a side street. There’s a wall of cars in front of him, caught up at a stop light. He could split the lane _maybe_ but then he’d have to slow to find an opening in the cross traffic. He’d been a sitting duck for the agents in the carrier.

Hanzo takes a breath and wrenches the handlebars sideways, sending the back end of the motorcycle wiping around, and leans down to the ground. He tries to let his reinforced boots and kneepads take the brunt of the skid, but he has to make a few quick touches to the pavement to stay upright and forfeits the skin of his palms to do it.

The personnel carrier is still bearing down on him. The last few feet, Hanzo drops to lie flat on the road, abruptly halting his momentum and surely leaving him with a nasty road burn as his shirt and jacket get hiked up. The carrier passes over his head with a rush of air and then the brakes screech and there’s a crunch as it hits the motorcycle. Hanzo is on his feet running the instant he can. There’s a building he thinks he can scale, and if he can get some height he can, as Jesse would put it, give them hell.

The Talon agents pour out of the carrier, like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Hanzo allows himself a grim little smile. This will almost be too easy.

The first one falls before he knows what hit him, a sonic arrow lodged in his neck. His contacts paint silhouettes in his vision, outlining the shapes of the men and their vehicle. Hanzo shifts position, pops back up, and fires again, killing another.

This time, they figure out the game, and a spray of bullets splinters the stone work where he was just standing. Hanzo crawls back, out of sight, and watches as the silhouettes fall back and blend with the one from the carrier.

“Hanzo, the local police bands are blowin’ up, what’s yer status?” Jesse shouts over his comm.

“A little busy,” Hanzo grits out.

“ _Shit_ ,” Jesse swears.

Hanzo creeps back—occasional gunfire peppers the front of the building—and slinks down the back. He runs, keeping to the shadows, to another building with a better angle. He finds it just as navigable, if a little lower, so Hanzo makes his way up. Talon keeps shooting at his old perch, as determined as they are foolish.

He gets two more before they spot him a second time.

He’s about to start down this one, when he hears shouting below. He risks a look over the edge. A car passes by the carrier, forcing the Talon squad to dive out of the way. The nose of the car jerks and the whole thing spins, all thrusters firing at frantic intervals trying to arrest its motion, and then it rocks to a final halt. The driver door swings open and there’s a metallic glint. Six cracks ring out, echoing off the buildings like thunder. The last of his enemies crumple to the pavement.

“ _Hanzo_!” Jesse bellows. Hanzo hears it in the air, and then, after a minuscule delay, in his comm.

“I’m secure,” Hanzo replies at a normal volume into his mic. Hanzo glances around. From his vantage point he cannot see any more enemy units or the local authorities, but the gunfire will bring the police at minimum. “Go three blocks north and five west. I will meet you across from the bank.”

“Wilco,” Jesse answers.  Jesse shuts the door and whips the car around, speeding off. Nominally it should take Jesse less time to get there, but he will want to take a more circuitous route to throw off any observers.

Hanzo leaps to the roof of the building to the north, which is about a story shorter. He rolls to distribute the impact and heads toward the fire escape. No sense passing up an easy egress.

Once in the alley below, he pulls out an arrow and nocks it, crouches low beside a dumpster, and waits. What few people were out in the streets at this hour are gathering around the wreckage, but none are paying any attention to the alley.

Hanzo quickly pulls his quiver over his shoulder and unzips his jacket. He wraps his jacket around the quiver and Stormbow, making a tight bundle. He pulls his hair out of its bun and brushes it out with his fingers, letting it fall down the left side of his face. He plucks at his shirt. It’s sticking to the road burn, but there’s only a faint sheen visible on the dark fabric. There’s nothing for it, but it’s unlikely to draw attention.

He tucks the bundle under his arm and walks away from the scene playing out in the street, keeping his head down. No one pays him any mind as he walks toward the bank, though he keeps a careful watch. _Nothing to see here_ his posture and gait say.

He overshoots the bank by a block, surreptitiously scanning for Jesse or the car he’d acquired. He doesn’t see it on the first pass, but as he circles around, he hears Jesse’s voice in his ear.

“I’m at your three. No one’s on your tail.”

Hanzo doesn’t respond, doesn’t change his pace, but he does cross the street at the next intersection and casually walk toward the only alley Jesse could be parked in.

The car is there, hovering and on, but with its lights off. It’s hard to see inside in the dark, but Jesse leans forward so that the feeble light from the streetlamps illuminates his face. Hanzo can’t help the way his lips turn up at the sight of him.

Hanzo opens the door and it met with the stench of tobacco smoke wafting out. Jesse must be feeling tense. Hanzo places his bundle in the backseat and gets in, shutting the door behind him. He looks at Jesse, both eyebrows quirked up— _everything okay?_

Jesse leans across the center console with a low rumble. His hands are everywhere at once, buried in the pulse point under his jaw, at the small of his back, skimming over the road burn close enough that Hanzo can feel the heat but not quite touching, cradling his face.

“You crazy fucking _bastard_ ,” Jesse growls, pressing his forehead against Hanzo’s. Hanzo just hums, low in his throat. Jesse kisses the corner of his lips, then barley nips at Hanzo’s bottom lip, just enough that Hanzo’s aware of his teeth. Hanzo begins thinking through the logistics of pulling Jesse into his arms for a proper kiss without aggravating the raw spots, but Jesse leans back.

Jesse lifts up Hanzo’s hands by his wrists, looking at his palms. They’re weeping blood and they sting, but it’s an afterthought with the adrenaline still pumping through Hanzo’s system. Jesse presses his unscathed fingertips to his lips and closes his eyes.

“I’m all right,” Hanzo says.

“Have you gotten a look at yerself?”

Hanzo pulls one hand free and brushes the backs of his fingers down Jesse’s face. Jesse’s eyes flicker back open.

“Shit, and they say my drivin’s bad,” Jesse says with a wet chuckle. Hanzo huffs, and his lips quirk up.

“I was merely expanding on what I was taught.”

“Oh no, don’t go blamin’ this on me.”

Hanzo shrugs his shoulders, lets the mischief show on his face. Jesse shakes his head.

“Look at you, sassin’ me, Christ.”

Jesse lets his other hand go, and reaches down to his side. His hand comes back up with Peacekeeper. He hands it, grips first, to Hanzo.

Hanzo shoots him a questioning look—surely he won’t want blood on the grip—but Jesse waves it, insistent. Hanzo always forgets how heavy Jesse’s weapon is. It’s reassuring.

Jesse shifts the car out of park, and it eases forward out of the alley. Jesse reaches across the car to set his hand on Hanzo’s knee, squeezing once. Hanzo settles back against the seat, careful not to dislodge Jesse’s hand, and rests Peacekeeper in his lap, out of sight to anyone looking in.

With the danger and excitement having passed, exhaustion begins to set in. The alternating darkness and dim orange glow from the street lights is soothing, as is the motion of the car. Jesse is driving as his personal emergency speed—exactly five under the speed limit with no sharp maneuvers of any kind. Hanzo has to fight to stay alert and help Jesse keep watch.

He needn’t have bothered. They make it back to the safe house without incident. Jesse parks the car out of sight and turns it off.

“Looks like we’re the first back,” Jesse says.

Hanzo glances around. The windows are dark, with no signs of habitation. Hanzo hands Jesse’s weapon back to him and reaches back for his own. They enter together, wary. They go room by room, clearing every one.

The safe house is secure.

Jesse blows out a long breath, holstering Peacekeeper. Hanzo leans into his side, and gets Jesse’s arm over his shoulders for his trouble. They stand in the dark like that for a moment, just soaking up the quiet.

“I’m gonna smoke, then I’ll take a look at those scrapes?” Jesse’s voice curls up. By now they’ve started to hurt, a persistent stinging at the edges of Hanzo’s attention. He hums his assent.

“Then—”  Jesse leans down and steals a kiss. “I think we’ve got some time.”

“Oh?” Hanzo says, suddenly feeling more alert. Jesse winks, a devilish smile lighting up his features. Hanzo thinks he can find a little more appetite for that kind of excitement.

**Author's Note:**

> Offensive driving courses in the future must be a goddamned trip, lemme tell you.
> 
> Thanks for reading, hmu at https://saltytothecore.tumblr.com/


End file.
